Chapter Ninety-Seven: The Next Chapter

Where had she gone?

There was no doubt that she had disappeared into thin air. A magic, dark and powerful, filled with hate and anger and sadness, was involved… I had felt it throw me to the ground. It had crawl into my heart before it recoiled and fled. What did it see there?

I still felt a lingering cold and despair. Was it her despair?

Why?

She had said she no longer wanted to live in my shadow. Nathaniel did not love her as he loved me. I felt a certain pride in that fact. I had won after all, hadn’t I?

Her daughters were dead. They were the innocent casualties. I could not feel for them now, faceless as they were.

Was she dead? Or transported to another life, another time? Would she ever come back to haunt me?

Sunlight had broken over the horizon and bathed the rooftops in bright yellow. I shifted my skirts as the carriage made its way to Lauriston Street. The hem of the black mourning crepe was damp from the dew of the graveyard and black dye rubbed off onto my fingers.

No matter. It will dry.

My heart was pounding we came to a stop. A rocking signaled that the driver had stepped down. In seconds he had opened the door with a flourish and held out his hand to me. I placed my black gloved hand in his and stepped out.

The veil did not protect enough from the blinding sun glancing off of the third floor windows of the brownstone to prevent me from squinting as I looked up. It certainly looked respectable enough.

I could live here. 

I smiled to myself, relaxing somewhat, and took a step toward the front door. It was shiny and red with a large, simple brass knocker.

“No, Mrs. Brierly. Over there.” That name on his lips startled me.  I had given it to myself, to him. Still, to hear it on someone else’s lips….

He handed me the valise and pointed across the narrow street to another brownstone. The windows were dark with grime and the front steps were dirty. The door was propped open halfway, revealing stairs.

Surely not.

I checked the paper again, confused.

“Shall I wait for ye?” He stared at me kindly, expectantly.

I shook my head no silently as I pressed money into his hand.

“Are ye sure, lass?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I could barely breathe, anxiety and fear gripped my chest.

Had she given me the wrong address on purpose? Was this her revenge?

I did not want this man to serve as witness to my humiliation.

Crossing the street, I stood staring at the steps until I heard the carriage depart. Only then did I push the door open further and entered.

Chapter Ninety-One: Another Light

  
“You cannot have her.” The ancient man with the gravely voice scribbled something in a ledger. The well organized rows of curls on his powdered white wig rested on his shoulders, standing sentry. 

“What do you mean I cannot have her?” I struggled to keep my voice even. I had quickly learned that any show of emotion was inevitably ascribed to my perceived insanity and affected my credibility.

He continued scribbling, dipping staccato-like into the black ink pot, then scribbling some more.

He looked up finally when he realized I was not leaving, sighed loudly, then closed the heavy leather bound ledger with a deafening slam that caused me to start involuntarily.

“You are an unfit, unwed mother.” He enunciated carefully, as if he were explaining to an imbecile.

“I was wrongly imprisoned and I am widowed.” I spoke through my teeth to keep from screaming at him. “Those are not crimes!”

“Nooooo…. They are not. Wrongly is up for interpretation, but they are enough to keep you from getting your daughter back.” He held me in his stoney gaze, unmoved. “Furthermore, you will be required to pay an allowance to Mrs. Greer towards the care of your daughter.”

“Please.” The lump forming in my throat made it difficult to speak. I blinked, my eyes burning with the promise of tears still left unshed. “She is all I have left in this world.”

“No. She is a ward of the crown and will remain so.” He stood, the wooden chair scraping on the stone floor as it was pushed back. “Now leave.”

I was frozen in place, panic rising.

What else can I do? Fall to my hands and knees to beg? Offer up my body?

My body. It was used up, spent. Nothing to be desired anymore. There were scars that ran deeper than what the eyes could see. Things had been done…

My mind stopped there. It could go no further, think no other thought than that I was lost. 

Anne was lost.

How to get her back? Kidnap her? Would that even be possible? Maybe…

A hand appeared on my shoulder and pulled me away. I turned to look at the owner and recoiled reflexively in spite of myself at the pock marked and scarred face. His right eye was opaque, unseeing. It still caught me off guard from time to time.

Heaven had turned its back on us all it seemed.

“Come.” He spoke firmly.

We walked outside the courts, onto the streets.

No solicitor would take my case. A woman shamed. No one believed that I should have my child back.

I could not give up!

He paused to a stop by a lamp post. The sky was gloomy and overcast and the flames had already been lit. I pulled the wrap around my shoulders tighter against the chill that suddenly passed through me.

“I have a question,” he said softly, taking my free hand.

Oh, please. No. Please don’t ask me anything. Not today.

“I do not know if it will help matters but I offer myself to you as a husband.” There was earnestness, kindness showing in his one good eye. 

I could barely hold his gaze. I felt ashamed. I was relying upon him heavily to help me navigate the courts. Using him.

I do not love you.

Maybe I had once. 

Yes. I had. 

What had changed?

I was used up, spent. An empty shell. 

To refuse him would be to alienate my one remaining friend. To accept would be to lie to him. I had no intention of ever following through with marrying anyone, not until I could put the ghost of my past to rest. Edinburgh was far away but any promise of that pulled too strongly now. I was haunted and it was a terrifying, unrelenting obsession. The name, Nathaniel Brierly, repeated day and night in my head, invading even my panicked thoughts of Anne.

A woman in deep red silk brushed past and my heart skipped a beat until I realized it was no one I knew. The gait was wrong, the waist was wider, the hair a different shade…

One month until that letter was to arrive. One month to stall him. One month to plan stealing back my Anne. 

Lies. I would need many, many lies. I had plenty of room for them now, inside the empty shell that had once been me. 

We were two broken shadow people standing in the street, beneath a gas lamp. 

“Oh.” I smiled at him gratefully. “Of course… Thank you.”

He squeezed my hand, smiled, relieved that he had not been rebuffed.

A yes without saying yes. I could call it a misunderstanding later.

Yes, a misunderstanding. I took his arm and we walked onward together.

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Promises

“Where is he now?” I asked.

We eyed each other across the vast expanse of the worn wooden kitchen table, a chasm made wider by our mutual pain and mistrust. I had not bothered to cover it with a table cloth. Why worry with niceties when your rival is sitting across from you? The surface was crossed by knife gouges and my fingers traced the marks absently as I watched her face. Her eyes clouded with something… Anger? Pain? A secret perhaps? Then it disappeared, hidden.

Finally, she spoke. “He is in Edinburgh. Probably drunk.”

We sat in silence again.

“Do you still love him?”

“Yes.” She smiled slightly. She was beautiful. “But not as before, not in the same way. I want him to find the happiness he could not find with me.” She seemed earnest, though I wondered. Who could be human and yet so magnanimous? 

“And your daughters?”

She sighed. “With him.” She saw my concern and hurriedly added, “They have a governess. An old, ugly governess. No sense tempting fate.” A bitter laugh escaped from her red lips.

“What do you intend to do?” I watched her face again. There was resignation this time.

“I will go back. I have no choice. I have no money of my own and no means or skills by which to support two daughters.” She stared at me, pointedly. “What do you intend to do?”

What could I do?

“I will continue to go on as I have.” I shrugged. “No choice but to keep going forward.” I stopped as realized her intent. “If you are worried that I will attempt to take him from you, I can assure you that I will not.” She nodded solemnly. 

Shame and pity washed over me. 

I held out my hand to her. 

She hesitated but took it. I squeezed. We had made a pact, she and I, two women hurt beyond recognition by love. How happy would we be if he had never crossed into our lives? We would never know. There was nothing to be done about it now.

“I am sorry, you know.”

“I am, too,” she whispered softly.

She gripped my hand tighter.

“I know of another way.” She rushed through the whispered words.

My heart pounded. “What?” Did I hear her correctly? Surely not.

“I know of another way,” she said, this time louder. “We can both have what we want. You want him. I want freedom. I know of a way but I need your help.”

“You know of a way?” My voice sounded incredulous. I cleared my throat and tried again, this time without the edginess. “You know of a way?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I cannot tell you just yet.” She stood, still holding my hand. “Give me one year to make the preparations. I will send you a letter with instructions.” She was squeezing harder.

“One year?”

“One year.” She spoke with urgency and determination. “You promise to help me?” Her grip was beginning to hurt.

“Yes.” I stood up. “Yes, I will help you.” 

“You will raise my daughters as your own?” I nodded. “Say it! Say you will do it!” She grabbed my other hand and we stood facing each other, her eyes searching mine, looking for some clue. Could I be trusted?

“I will.”

She let go of my hands. She gave me a tight, quick hug and then held me out at arms length, joyful. 

A smile.

And then? Then she was gone. 

She walked out of my house. I watched her red dress fade into the distance from the parlor window as Anne began to fuss from the nursery, letting me know she was hungry.

One year.

Chapter Seventy-Six: Grievances

I brushed a small buzzing insect away from my face, waiting. 

We both eyed each other. 

“Who are you?” I repeated. 

Her smile continued, unwavering. “I am looking for Nathaniel Brierly.”  

I stood silently, weighing my answer, hoping my face did not betray the fear. 

Oh, God! What did she know? 

Somehow I knew this day would come.   Be sure your sins will find you out… 

“I am not acquainted with him.” I lied. “Does he live around here?”  

Anne squealed and reached behind my shoulder for some imaginary play thing. I had turned her back to the woman as we had come up the walk. Now I shifted the weight to keep her from falling but this allowed her to grab my hair. The pain from the sudden yank stung in my eyes as I untangled her fingers and turned her around on my my hip.  

“I think you are… acquainted.” She motioned to Anne as the smile faded from her face. “How old is the baby?”

“I think you need to leave.”  

For a moment the veil lifted. Fear and hurt showed in her eyes. Her skirt shifted and the red silk fabric rustled like the whispering leaves overhead as she stepped forward, holding out her hand. 

I stared at the slim, pale fingers. No resemblance there. 

“I… I….” She stopped, pulling her hand back when I did not accept it. “My name is Mrs. Anne Brierly. He is my husband.” She appeared close to tears as she handed me a calling card printed with her name in black inked script. “Please.” She paused again, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. “I am sorry. I need to speak with you.”

I wanted to scream at her, to fly into a jealous rage. Bite. Claw. Kick. Spit. She shared his life! I only had a small part of it here in my arms.  

“Why?” I whispered. 

“May I come in?” 

Warily, I nodded my head and motioned for her to follow me inside.

She left her bonnet on her head as I busied myself preparing tea.  

“May I?” She wanted to pick up Anne. 

Anne wanted to hold Anne… 

I nodded but watched carefully out of the corner of my eye as I put up the newly purchased goods and the kettle heated on the stove. 

She pulled the garnet earring out of her earlobe and dangled it before the giggling baby who chased it with her hands.  

“She is beautiful. What is her name?”

I hesitated. “Anne.” The woman stopped playing with the earring and looked over at me, surprised. “I didn’t know it was your name.”

She nodded, silently, then went back to playing seemingly satisfied.

“You have girls, too, don’t you?” 

She looked up, surprised. “Yes.” 

“How many?” 

 “Two…” 

“Any boys?” 

“Yes. Well. No. Actually no….” Her voice drifted off. We both understood what that meant. 

“What happened to her arm?” She asked softly. 

“It is a long story… not one that I am ready to tell as yet.” 

“Oh…..” She put the earring back in her ear.  

I put Anne down for a nap while the tea steeped. I took my time, hoping to steel myself for whatever was to come next. 

When I returned, we sat across from each other at the table in the kitchen. I poured the tea. We made eye contact over our teacups as we sipped, punctuating time with the clink of china upon china. 

“Why do you have his smile?” I finally asked her. 

She put her cup down delicately but a tremble in her hand made it rattle as it hit the saucer. She took a deep breath, then spoke softly. 

“Nathaniel was my second cousin. I was much, much younger than he. I looked up to him. I thought he was the most gallant and handsome man I had ever met. I rarely saw him but I spent my time infatuated, thinking only of what it would be like to be loved by him.” She shrugged. “I was just a little girl.” 

“One day he showed up again. He had completed his medical training and had toured in the States, talking about something or other.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I resolved to make him mine.” She steepled her fingers in front of her face and brushed her lips across the tips. “So I used everything in my power….” 

She paused for a sip of tea, realized her hand still trembled too much, then quickly put it back down.

“I was soon pregnant and family pressure forced a wedding.” She paused. “I gave birth to a boy. He… the baby… was not right. Only one eye. His face was split from his lip to his nose. His belly was turned inside out.” 

The hair stood out on my forearms.  

Just like my little Levi. 

“He died?” I asked. 

She nodded.

“Within a few years we had two daughters. His behavior at home was erratic and I saw less and less of him as he became more well known in Edinburgh. He would stay there for months at a time. 

“Finally, one day, he sent me a letter, saying that he was leaving for the Crimea. No explanation. Just leaving.” More anguish was showing on her face. “Every now and then we would get vague letters from him about the cold or the terrible food but they were rare.”

“When he finally came back, he was a shadow. A tortured soul.” Her eyes bored into me. “I didn’t know why.” Another pause. “He started to drink. Not just a little bit. No. Heavily. Drowning sorrows, he said. I thought it was because of his leg, the fact that he could not walk well any more, or because of things that he had seen…. there.” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “There were terrible stories, you know.” Then she laughed. “Of course you know. You were there. You were there with him, weren’t you?” Her voice cracked.

“Yes.” I breathed. 

“One night, in a drunken stupor he called me by your name. He talked to me about his leg. About you. To him I did not exist as myself, I was his dear Evelyn.” She sobbed out of grief and rage. “I felt what it was like to be loved by him that night….” 

There was silence for a few long minutes as we measured each other from across the table. I was unsure what to say. Finally, she spoke again. 

“I decided to find out who you were.”

Chapter Sixty-One: Doubt

I waited anxiously for the days to tick by. Still I had no long term plan. I felt I could think better once I had the brooch and so I put off any serious consideration until I had my bit of Nathaniel back in my possession.

Time slowed, it seemed, almost to a standstill. My days were marked by words and meals, both of which were meager. The stories had stopped coming. There was more, much more, to say but it would not flow out of me onto the paper in any coherent fashion. As for the food, I had no appetite. Why pay for something I could not eat? And so I did not.

Sunday I decided to venture out to church, more out of boredom than piety. The streets were thick with those hurrying to seek their weekly absolution. Children, scrubbed clean, were dragged behind their mothers and fathers dressed in Sunday best. Old women walked more deliberately, likely held back by their rheumatism. Everyone was on their way to pay their respects to the almighty. Or at least they were making sure everyone else saw them doing it.

As I took the great stone steps myself, I realized that my heart felt bruised and tattered and that the holes had been filled by resentment. I was not ready to let go of all of the anger that was holding me together. Somehow, I knew that stepping across the threshold would start to chisel away at it. Once that was gone, what would I have left but grief and despair? Resentment and anger might not be the most pleasant of emotions but it was better than the alternative at this moment.

And what of remorse? I felt none for my love of Nathaniel, for my time with him, naked. Wasn’t remorse required of me prior to crossing this threshold? I searched my soul. No. No regret. I would live those moments over and over a thousand times a day if I could.

I hesitated at the heavy, ornate door, not entering. It must have been a lengthy pause. Someone behind me shifted and then coughed impatiently.

Turning, I found a young married couple waiting expectantly. The woman stared at me, clearly irritated that I was blocking their path. She did not know that I could not be hurt by her. She was too young to have been affected much by life. Soon, that would change, I felt certain. Instead, I pitied her.

“I beg your pardon,” I whispered to them as I passed. The gentleman touched his hat to me, nodding slightly. The woman glared from beneath her green velvet bonnet, her matching green eyes flashing.

Walking back down the steps, I pulled the black cloak tighter around me. Inquisitive looks from other parishioners followed as I retreated. What were they thinking about me, I wondered.

Coward. Sinner. Heathen. Damned.

It was only a few blocks to the hotel and I hurried as quickly as I could, not wanting to be out here in the open where I suddenly felt so vulnerable. Why was everyone looking at me? I touched my veil, the bonnet, smoothed my skirt…making sure nothing was out of place. It must be my imagination. I looked over my shoulder. There! A man in a black frock coat was looking back at me over their shoulder. It was real. But why? I am supposed to be an apparition, dressed in mourning. Does the magic not work on holy days, then?

Back in my rooms I sat holding the Bible I had purchased a few days previously. I did not open it.

All of my life there had been a nagging undercurrent of disbelief, that feeling that what I had been taught about God was not quite real because it did not make sense. Yes, I had read the verses. I had heard the sermons. But there was something missing. They were all leaving out the most important part but I did not know what that part was specifically. All I had was that suspicion, the doubt. It was this doubt that I now grabbed hold of with both hands.

Chapter Sixty: The Color of Blackness

I resolved to stay in London for a few weeks. I took up residence in a modest but respectable hotel as I gathered my wits and continued to write the stories of the people I had met in Scutari and Balaklava.

The first real order of business was pressing.  I had to purchase new clothing as what I had brought with me from the Crimea was very worn and several seasons out of fashion. I spent money on three lovely new dresses, undergarments, and shoes only to find that as a single woman there was much curiosity. Everyone from hotel staff and shopkeepers wanted to ask me personal questions and I had much difficulty explaining my situation.

In order to make life easier, I decided to enter full mourning again. No one would hassle the grieving widow. I moved about the crowded streets unhindered, an anonymous figure cloaked and veiled in black. When William had died the clothing had seemed a prison. Hot, stifling, uncomfortable. Now, as a shadow, I was unrecognized, untouched. Eyes were averted. No one spoke to me except to quickly give me what I wanted or needed, hoping I would move one quickly before I brought bad luck or my tears or worse. It was freedom itself. The color suited my grieving, stained heart and the veil hid my deep sadness.

Nathaniel’s gift I kept with me at all times but as the paper began to show wear quickly, I realized that it needed to be better preserved. Still, to do so meant giving up my one relic, if only for a time, an act that was painful to consider even if it were temporary.

Eventually I enquired after reputable jewelers from the desk clerk at the hotel and had been directed to an establishment several blocks away that specialized in memorial pieces. I had a very specific item in mind. A gold brooch enameled in black with the word Recuerdo engraved upon the face. A reproduction of the one worn by the young lady in the painting in my rood in Edinburgh oh so long ago. Inside, behind a thick crystal, would lie the bit of his hair and the message…Victo Dolore. Thusly, he would be locked away, my secret, but I could still have him close to my heart.

“Good day, Madame,” the jeweler croaked as I entered the shop. He was a tiny, wizened old gentleman with a loupe stuck into one squinting eye. Much of his posture and appearance reminded me of a troll, but he did not seem unpleasant. He had looked up from his current project when he heard me enter.

“Good day, sir.”

“I will be with you in a moment.”

He continued tinkering away on an exquisite garnet encrusted bauble as I wandered past the display cases with their jewels reclining luxuriously on the folds of red velvet. Pearl necklaces, onyx crosses, emerald earrings, diamonds watch fobs all twinkled and shone in the late afternoon light. Each was constructed with a place to stash some memento of a departed loved one, tucked away behind glads. As I examined the pieces I began to doubt that my design was elaborate enough to serve as a fitting memorial. I began to panic a bit.

At last the jeweler cleared his throat and stood, putting down his tools. His fingers were gnarled and misshapen. How could he do such fine work with hand like this?

“How can I help you?” he asked after what seemed a lengthy period. The loupe was gone, replaced by a pair of wire rimmed spectacles.

Wordlessly, I showed him my crude sketch, smoothing out the folded paper on the countertop. He nodded, peering over the wire frames. A “Hmmmmmmm…,” escaped his lips.

He looked up at me. “I can have it ready in about two weeks time, I believe.” Glancing down at the drawing again, he was apparently lost in thought, tabulating some important variable. “Yes. That should be sufficient time. Is that acceptable?” He again looked up at me, this time quizzically. A wiry gray eyebrow was raised as a question mark.

“That soon?” I was taken aback by the speed of his answer and the promised time to have the order completed.

“Certainly.” He shrugged. “It is a simple yet elegant piece.” My heart lifted a bit at his praise. He would know beauty when he saw it, wouldn’t he?

We discussed price with some good natured haggling. Eventually we agreed on an amount. Truthfully I would have paid any price.

“Well then, that is most agreeable.” I handed over my precious bit of hair and the scrap of paper, aching as I did so, then paid him half of the agreed upon sum. “I will return in two weeks.”

He nodded acceptance of the arrangement, then returned slowly to his workbench, easing along with an arthritic shuffle. I turned to leave.

“This will not make it better, you know.”

“Pardon me?” I paused with my hand on the door handle and turned back, not sure I had heard him correctly. He was staring hard at me.

“This will not make it better,” he repeated.

“I understand,” I said, bowing my head. But I did not. And he did not. No one could understand because I could not tell them this dark black secret of mine.

He settled back to setting the showy garnets in their new golden home.

The door jingled as I closed it tight behind me, taking a deep breath.  The air inside was less polluted but had been stifling nonetheless.

I walked slowly back to the hotel. His words bothered me. I was not sure that I wanted to feel better. Somehow the pain made it feel more real and suffering seemed necessary to atone for my sin. I had enjoyed my sin, making it all the more sinful. Certainly this fellow was attempting to assuage his own guilt for capitalizing on the grief of others by offering bits of pseudo-sage advice. I would never see him again after I paid for my brooch and I was glad.

I felt lost without my treasure, ungrounded. This was silly I recognized but I was unsure how to change the fact.

I found myself wandering the streets wondering how would I fill up my days and my nights. I played through the moments with Nathaniel again, hidden behind the black veil. I hoped that the more I relived those feelings, the deeper they would be etched into my memory. I did not want to lose even a second of that precious time. The sea of people parted easily for me as I passed, no one wanting the bad luck of touching me, the widow twice over.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Victo Dolore

The war had changed me. On this journey back to England, I weighed my future prospects.

Most of the young ladies at Scutari and Balaklava would be returning to their family homes and then likely on to other nursing posts if they could get past what they had witnessed in the Crimea.

I had no family to which to return. I was very afraid that my spirit was too marred by what I had seen to have much to return to anywhere. Living is dirty and messy I had learned, almost as much as dying. I was haunted by the faces and bodies of those broken men and by the sound of their unanswered cries for help.

The scent of sickness seemed to permeate every surface and multiplied in poorly ventilated spaces like my stateroom. It haunted me, everywhere as did the faces.

The young man from Cornwall, who had lost both of his hands and both legs, only to survive. He had prayed for death as each day had passed, even when it was clear that he would survive. One dark night, as I brought him water to drink, he grabbed my hand, spilling the water from the ladle it held. He pulled himself up while pulling me down and whispered into my ear, “Please miss, give me some poison or a knife or something….anything…. Help me! I cannot live like this!” Even thinking of it now, I shuddered. He knew that he would always be a burden. Even the joy of seeing his wife and children again could not erase that fear. Was it selfishness, not wanting to be degraded? Or was it love, wanting his wife to have a whole man who could care for her, rather than a half of man that would bring her down and make her old before her time?

I needed to document those details and stories before their edges faded into the dark mist of memories, interpreted and arranged unconsciously by my mind into the least painful construct it could live with. I began writing furiously using the portable writing desk brought by the steward. Soon, there was no paper left. I had even laid open the envelopes and written on them.

Days passed. We sailed closer and closer to England. Since my encounter with Nathaniel that night, I had lost my fear of seeing him, however we both took pains to avoid each other.

I stood alone on deck late in the crisp, cool night, taking in the myriad of stars blanketing the skies when I heard footsteps approaching from behind. Step, shuffle. Clunk. Step, shuffle. Clunk. Step, shuffle. It was unmistakable, even on this ship full of wounded bodies and wounded souls. His gait. His cane. He stood there for a few moments before stepping up to the rail behind me. We were due in port the next day.

“Good evening,” I said without shifting my gaze from the large waxing moon on the horizon.

“Yes, it is,” he replied. I looked over at him. He was dressed in a plain white shirt, uniform pants, boots and a regimental frock coat. He wore a mustache these days.

“What happened?” I asked cautiously, motioning to his hand and leg. I realized I did not know the story.

“Ah.” There was a pause. “It is the result of a death wish that put me on the front lines in the path of a mortar round. An ignorant decision that…that I will pay dearly for.” He stood silent for another moment, a half smile playing upon his lips. “You moved on to Balaklava after Scutari?”

“Yes.” A stiff wind caught my skirts and chilled the bone. I gave an involuntary shiver. “So you return to your family?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes.”

I bent at the waist and laid my forehead on the cool rail between my gloved hands. I would not have expected less from him. I would not wish anything to happen to his wife or child, knowing the pain it would cause him if they were gone. I could not be so vain as to think that I could fill that great of a void.

“Evelyn…” My name on his lips.

“You do not need to offer excuses or explanations to me. You owe me none.”

He put his hand over mine, warming it against the cold metal. I looked up. He had sadness in the creases about his eyes. We stood there in silence for over a quarter of an hour.

“I should have stayed and fought for you in Cambridge.”

“No.” How do you say to someone that you were not ready for them then?

“Come, I will escort you to your berth,” he said, taking my arm.

“I do not wish to leave yet,” I replied.

“And yet, I cannot leave you out here alone.”

“I have been alone every night for the past two years. How is this night any different?”

He did not seem to hear me, however. He steered me firmly across the deck and down the stairs to my cabin.

“Please, talk to me for a while,” I pleaded. I was not ready for goodbye.

It was late. If any man were caught entering my stateroom, it would have meant serious trouble in any other world. But here, in the middle of the ocean at the tail end of the world’s most brutal, awful war, what could be ruined that meant anything to me at this point? “In war time, miss, certain rules no longer apply.”

He shook his head.

“Please…” I whispered. I opened the door and stepped back. There was another moment’s hesitation. Then he entered.

Once the door closed behind me, I had no time to even light a lamp. His lips closed upon my own. We kissed as if with a thirst that could not be slaked. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, holding me to him, his breath in my ear.

As we undressed each other in the complete darkness, our hands explored what we had not had time to explore before. We made love slowly, sadly, as if discovering each other for the first and last time all over again. As he entered my body, I felt him flow through my veins, filling me and awakening me. I clung to him as I felt his warmth spill into my very depths.

This night, we actually slept together, skin touching skin. We had never had the opportunity before. My head rested in the crook of his arm, my leg draped over his, an arm resting across his chest. We fit together comfortably in a way that I had not known with William.

I did not want it to end. It was sheer bliss feeling his warmth beside me, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through my cheek. We slept until mid morning, when the light streamed through the tiny port window and landed in a circle on the dusty floor.

While he was still asleep, I watched him for what must have been an hour. I could not resist the feel of the day old stubble of his chin as it brushed across the palm of my hand.

He was stirring from my touch, so I withdrew my hand. I rolled over onto my belly, propping my torso up on my arms, my chin resting on my hands. I could feel the remains of his seed slipping from me, wetting my thighs.

The bells were sounding land.

“Thank you,” I told him, smiling. He smiled back at me, kissed my forehead.

“I love you,” he replied.

“I know.”

“Where will you go, Evelyn?” Instead of answering, I let my hand run across his chin again, feeling the wiskers. “What will you do now that the war is over?”

With no family, I was truly alone. Or perhaps free was a better term. I hesitated, realizing that I was afraid. I did not wish to admit this, leaving him to feel obligated to assist me in any way.

“You could stay with us?” He sounded almost hopeful.

“No.” That was impossible.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

More bells.

“I cannot leave you like this.”

There was no sense in even answering. It hung in the air like an empty promise. There was no other choice left for him than to return to his family. I knew this. If he did not, I would find him to be half the man I thought he was. I knew he had to go, not simply for his family, and for himself, but also for us.

We lingered there. I was nestled in the crook of his arm, my head resting on his shoulder. I could catch his scent as I shifted to press my ear against his chest. I could hear his heart beating, steady. I must have dozed there for a few moments. At last, he pulled his arm out from behind my shoulders and sat up. His thumb traced my lips and cheek as he stared at me. He took my mangled hand and kissed the palm then placed his hand over my heart for a few moments. Oh, don’t go. Please.

The bells were sounding again.

“I have nothing of you,” I said, beginning to feel the panic rising and catching in my throat. It would take everything I had within me not to beg, even if I understood that I must let him go in order to continue to love him.

He sat silently on the edge of the bed, pulling on his trousers. I watched the muscles shift beneath the skin of his bare shoulders as his arms moved. He stood but did not turn.

“What would you like?”

I was stymied. What did I want? There was so much that I desired. Your child? Instead I merely shrugged, afraid to give further voice, and set about dressing myself.

Nathaniel assisted with my corset. There is something bittersweet about being bound into a shaped piece of silk and bone that is pulled tight by one’s lover, never to be undone by him again. The rest of my toilet, I attended to myself.

He leaned over to kiss me one last time, his lips lingering on mine, then was gone.

I busied myself packing what little belongings I had lying about. I had resolved to remain in my cabin until he was safely ashore. I did not want to happen upon a joyous homecoming. I had not asked if she would be meeting him here but I did not wish to take any chances.

Distracted, I almost missed the little piece of paper he had left on the dresser addressed to me. My hands shook as I unfolded it. Written in his simple hand were the words “Victo Dolore” along with a lock of his hair.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Dinner

There was another knock. Dinner? This must be food at last!

I hurried to the door, opening it eagerly. There, on a cart, were many covered dishes, domed in silver. I could not see anything aside from my distorted reflections, but the smell made my stomach begin to gnaw on itself. Divine.

A dark bearded steward nodded silently rolling in the wooden cart. He began laying it out on the heavily carved, if not somewhat worn, table in the corner of the sitting room. He shook out a table cloth, covering the surface in white linen, then began laying out and uncovering the dishes. I could see it was too much food. I could never eat all of this. Roasted chicken with rosemary. Potatoes. Creamed spinach. A lovely cake.

Candles? He lit them.

Two plates?

“Sir, excuse me.” I put my hand on the steward’s arm to make him stop. He paused, confused. “There is only me tonight. Only me eating this. Not two.” A stab of guilt hit me, remembering what the hospital staff and patients were subsisting on. “I am sorry if I was not clear. Please take most of this away. Don’t waste it.”

He shook his head and went back to hurriedly laying out the dinner service for two. Silverware. Napkins. Crystal. Wine, poured from a sparkling decanter.

Another knock at the door.

Then I realized what was happening.

The steward was looking at me, expectantly but I was rooted to the spot. I could not open the door. I put a hand up to my hair. I must look dreadful. I smoothed my skirt down unconsciously, grateful that I had taught myself how to wriggle into a corset despite my crippled hand.  Damn it!

“May I?” the steward asked. I glared at him, unmoving and silent. He shrugged and moved to the door, taking his cart with him. His work here was done.

And then there was Nathaniel, handing a wad of bills to the steward who bowed slightly and murmured his thanks as he closed the door behind him.

Silence as we stared at each other from across the room, taking measure. He leaning on his cane, me holding a chair with my good hand for support.

I spoke first. “I told you no,” my voice was shaking.

“I understand if you do not want to be seen publicly with me. I thought this might be an acceptable alternative. You must allow me to show my gratitude, to say thanks in some small way for saving my life.” His eyes pleaded with me.

“A note would have sufficed,” I said stiffly.

“Evelyn.” He sighed. “I do not wish to cause you pain. I will leave if you wish.”

I considered this for a moment.

No. The food must be eaten. Dinner does not constitute a betrayal. I did not speak or give him permission. I merely sat myself down in a chair, placing my napkin into my lap. He followed suit.

I served myself from the food and ate in silence that was punctuated only by the sound of silverware on the china and the ringing of crystal when it hit something else on the table. Sadness wrapped itself around my tongue, deadening the flavors. The only thing that tasted good was the wine. Eventually I gave up on the food, pouring myself a second glass.

He avoided my gaze, examining the room. I stared at my wine, the deep red seemed to glow from within. I could feel the alcohol recreating that tremulous feeling in my arms and legs…not the rubbery, off balanced kind of feeling one gets when seriously inebriated. It was the delicious alive feeling, almost bordering on joy, that comes more early on.

I searched my brain for something clever and biting to say, but there was nothing that came to me now. There would be later, surely. There were always plenty of words when there was no longer any opportunity to use them.

Instead, I settled on staring at him, looking him in the face. It gave me courage.

He was still so handsome. Was it the wine? The candlelight?

He looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, wistfully.

“Would you care for some cake, Evelyn?”

“No. No, thank you.” We regarded each other for several minutes. A battle of wills to see who would blink first. Finally, he decided to allow me this one victory. He cleared his throat, dabbing at his whiskers with the linen napkin, placing it neatly beside his plate as a gentleman should. The war had not changed him in that way.

He stood, grabbing his cane. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it. I stood, taking his cue. He wanted to say goodbye, surely.

I crossed to the door, thinking that I would have a third glass of wine once he had gone. There would be no sleep without it.

He followed me across the small room, over the worn carpets. Those carpets had been something in their day, majestic even.  One could tell in spite the shadows they had become.

At the door, he took my damaged hand, bringing it to his lips. My fingers were tickled by his facial hair, the parts that still had feeling. The old me would have giggled. Instead, I frowned, sadness welling up from within. No matter what happened from now on there would be pain, always pain.

How it happened next, I could never be sure no matter how many times I reviewed it in my head. In the end I knew Nathaniel was mine and mine alone, if only for this brief moment.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Underwater

“I would like to take meals in my stateroom.” I was pacing the dark wood paneled sitting room in my cabin, agitated. “Is that possible?”

The steward nodded solemnly.

“And I would like a glass of claret.” He raised a single eyebrow as if to say, surely not at this hour. “Now,” I added in case there was some degree of doubt in his mind.

“As you wish.” He smiled wryly. “Is there anything else with which I may be of assistance?” There was an edge to his voice now.

I realized I must have barked the order. I cringed inwardly. Giving orders came so easily when there was someone now to receive them.

I whispered an apology with my eyes.

“Yes. Please. I…I would like something to read. A book. Is there….?” I trailed off.

It seemed a ridiculous question. Of course there would not be a book store or lending library in the middle of the ocean, on a ship full of returning wounded, the bits and pieces left over from the Crimean War. This was the closest I had come to a luxury liner in over year but it was still a far cry from ships I had been on before. I cursed myself daily for not bringing one or two of the books from my trunk. The hours of idleness were affecting my mind and now threatened my very soul.

“Madame, there are some books available from the captain’s personal library. Is there a particular genre you are interested in? Generally, he does not lend out, but we have had precious few women on this ship of late. I am certain he would make an exception for you.”

I sighed in relief. “No, no particular interests. Surprise me.”

In short order he returned with a tea tray, a bottle of deep red claret, and several books. As he left I turned the musty books over in my hands. They appeared to have never been read, stiff bindings and crisp pages in leather bindings with gilded edges. I settled on one, The Lottery of Marriage by Frances Trollope and lost myself for several hours.

I became vaguely aware of an urgent pounding somewhere far away. It occurred again, drawing me further from the words on my page and as the sound came further into focus, I realized it was a pounding at (my) door.

I looked up from my book, irritated that something was pulling me back to reality.

Go away. Silence. I returned to the book.

More pounding. I sighed.

Fine. Perhaps it was dinner. I was hungry after all, having skipped lunch in the dining room earlier, too afraid of running into him, of having to continue the exhausting pretense of happiness, pretending not to care. I placed my book open and face down on the floor. The stiff binding groaned softly in protest.

Rising from the soft, upholstered chair in the sitting room of my cabin, I stretched my joints, stiffened from the lack of use, and made my way to the door. I cracked it open.

A steward was standing there, not the same one from earlier. This one was crumpled though not dirty, his left hand raised, poised to rap at the door again. When he saw the sliver of face peering out from the cracked door he lowered the arm slowly.

He had a pinched, apologetic look. “I am so sorry to interrupt, Madame. A man gave this to me, said it was a matter of some urgency and asked that I wait for a reply.”

I blinked. I opened the door wider.

There was only one man who knew I was here.

I was not sure I wanted to take the sealed envelope on the somewhat tarnished tray held out before me. His handwriting was on the envelope, addressed to Mrs. William Aspern. The bastard. Using my dead husband’s name as if it would keep us a safe distance apart. No. I would take the note. I would stab it through the heart and hand it back as my answer.

But wait. I did not even know what he was asking. I stepped back.

The steward stared at me, puzzled. “Missus?” He took the envelope off the tray himself, handing it to me.

I came back to my senses. I grabbed the note, tearing it open unceremoniously as I lacked a letter opener, and quickly read the contents. My face flushed. I put a hand to my chest. My heart. Where was my heart?

My dearest Evelyn,
I realize it is out of place for me to ask… completely out of line and disrespectful of me. But I am compelled. May we have dinner together tonight?
Faithfully yours,
Nathaniel Brierly

Faithfully his? What was he trying to say? And it was disrespectful. Of me. Of our past. Of his wife and his child and his future. I loved him and I hated him. I wondered silently which emotion was the strongest, which would win out. Dinner did not have to be a betrayal. It was a long leap from dinner to something unholy, wasn’t it?

There was no pen or ink or paper. I had brought none and I had found none in my rooms. I glanced up at the steward, now standing expectantly waiting for my answer.

“I have nothing with which to write,” I told him.

He nodded silently, disappearing for a few minutes. I found myself pacing back and forth as I had been earlier, trying to clear my thoughts.

A soft rap at the door signaled he was back; this time with a small writing desk, the portable kind that is neatly tucked away in a lovely wooden box. I laid it on a small side table. Inside I found thick cream colored stationary and everything else I needed. I ran my hand over the soft surface of a blank page, admiring the purity before I marred it.

I sat down, hastily penning my answer. Sealing an envelop was too much trouble, particularly given the fact that I had nothing to seal it with. No wax. I handed the folded paper with the single word etched in black ink to the steward.

He gave a slight bow and was gone.

I closed the door behind him and leaned against the cool wood.

What had I done? I knew that I would regret that answer for the rest of my lonely life. But once said, never unsaid. Always unsaid.

Chapter Forty-One: Learning

I did not want to kill him. No. I wanted something more sinister, more painful.

The work I did here at Scutari was mind numbing but necessary. It left my brain free to wander. To plan.

“Mrs. Aspern!” The sharp tone brought me round instantly. I looked up from The bandages. An orderly was at the doorway. A look of disdain washed over his face. “Dr. Jenkins requests your assistance.”

I stood.

This was what I had been waiting for. Days had passed and I had been afraid that my bravado might have sent him away from me for good. Apparently not.

I followed the tall, shuffling orderly to the surgery wing. When I entered the room, I found him alone with an unfortunate soldier whose left leg was clearly unsalvageable. The sickly sweet smell of gangrene was evident. The tourniquet was wound tightly at the upper thigh and the chloroform mask was in place. Muffled groans were audible but there was no struggle. The amputation saw was at the ready.

“Shall I stay to assist, Dr. Jenkins?” The orderly sounded hopeful.

“No, George, you may go. I am sure there are many other places you are needed.”

The orderly looked over knowingly at me, then made his retreat. Did he know this was going to be awful or that I was now a target?

Dr. Jenkins stared blankly at me. No trace of emotion. “Hold his leg there,” he said curtly, pointing to what was left of the lower thigh.

I placed my hands on the shredded flesh, warm and yet cold beneath my fingers. He expertly sawed through the muscles and sinews.

“Hold it tighter for Christ’s sake!” he said through clenched teeth. The savage sawing of the femur bone generated quite a bit of force and holding it steady was near impossible.

Sweat broke out across his forehead as he worked.

Finally, it was done.

“Dispose of that leg in the corner. The orderlies will clear it out later.” He pointed to a spot by the door where two other legs lay.

The weight of the single leg was actually quite a bit heavier than I was expecting. The whole thing was unwieldy as the knee and ankle flopped about and the fractures ground against each other. I stood it up in the corner, balancing it upright somehow. It looked more natural that way.

I returned to his side and assisted with cutting sutures as he sewed the skin and muscle flaps neatly over the stump. Soon, the job was done.

As he threw soiled instruments and bone saws into the bloody basin, I applied a close approximation of a dressing. The patient grimaced beneath his five day stubble but remained unconscious.

I looked over and caught Dr. Jenkins watching me. He did not turn away even when he realized I had caught him staring.

“What do you want from me?” I asked finally. “What will it take to get you to leave me alone?”

“You know what I want.”

“Why?”

He approached me, leaning against the length of my body, pressing his groin against my hip. He was aroused. His lips were at my ear. “I want control. Of you.”

He pressed in closer. I looked down at his hands. I was relieved. He had already washed them.

I whispered back, “And if I do this, once, you will leave me alone?” I willed myself to stay put, to not back away. He repulsed me so.

“If you wish.”

But we both knew that was a lie.

“Fine,” I said warily. This was crucial. He wanted control, I had to make him believe that he had it.

“My room tonight. At midnight.”

I nodded assent.

Physicians and surgeons on staff had their own private rooms at the other side of the hospital. I would have to be careful to not be seen, particularly as Ms. Nightingale made her nightly rounds.

I was startled by a muffled slap. I looked over at the corner. My leg had toppled over.

“Ah, well. I look forward to it Madame!” He backed away a few inches, laughing unpleasantly. Then, as if on impulse, he stepped toward me again. He took my face in his hands and kissed me violently. I had to choke back vomit as I pushed him away.

He left the operating room, whistling, leaving me alone with the soldier and the severed limbs, unsure of what to do next for the waking man’s pain.

I hurriedly washed my hands in the now bloody water, stirring it into a cloudy, red vortex with my fingers. I dried my hands on a bit of towel left unsoiled by Dr. Jenkins. I knew that while they may appear spotless, there was no possible way that they were clean.

Then I tried to calm the now agitated patient, and hoped that his screams would soon bring an orderly.

I waited.